Month: November 2020

lallygag. dillydally. pussyfoot. these are real words that describe true to life my approach to writing, each and every morning. what is the science behind this? for the past week, i’ve refrained from the 15 minutes that it takes for me to feel like i’ve done my minimum duty of being a writer. instead, sadistically, i’ve chosen the alternative route of going about my days with the aching in the background of having not done so. when i don’t begin my days writing, everything else i do is tinged with guilt – scrolling away at feeds, meandering through the banalities of work, even doing things that i truly love, like spending time with my family.

i’m aware that writing isn’t a typical regiment. it is not like the clinical ways in which i’ve incorporated meditation, stretching, and other routines that i’ve tucked into my daily schedule in neatly-timed doses. i make my excuses to not write by convincing myself that these short sessions don’t count, that they’ll never be shared or published, that they probably won’t be any good. why waste my time on it then? i believe that i came to writing because it’s one of the things that i believed i could be truly great at. every writer i admire has said in one way or another that such greatness does not present itself like the eggs of a golden goose (the golden eggs of a regular goose?) but rather like a diamond in a pile of shit. tbh, i’m not sure if that’s a helpful analogy for me. who wants to spend each day knowingly producing shit? or do they mean it’s like taking a shit? that only by forcing yourself to squeeze one out each morning can you get to a point of regularity, of smooth movement, a healthy system.

or maybe that’s just bullshit. things people tell themselves to quell the unrealistic desire for constant, consistent, uninterrupted perfection. maybe it’s slowly and arduously realizing that it’s the perfection that’s the bullshit, and it’s the bullshit that’s the truth. [shrugging emoji]

LA has been cold and windy lately, which has offered ample excuses for me to do nothing but stay inside and play video games. i bought lovely a switch for her birthday, following a steadfast tradition that we’ve established of giving each other presents that are actually for our own selves. it’s been so long since i’ve sat in front of a television, letting the hours mudslide away while gripping a controller, that i woke up after my first day of playing mariokart with pain running from my wrists to my neck. it was like the inverse of a post-workout soreness after hitting the gym after a long, lethargic winter. but perhaps these are the dues to pay in my current campaign to find pockets of unproductivity. productivity is what squeezed gaming out of my life in the first place, following college when i decided that i have a grand purpose in this world that would only be achieved if i spent less time playing and more time working. for years after, i traded the RPGs and combat games i loved to instead expand my internet presence. instead of collecting gems and coins, i started chasing likes and followers. instead of striving to get to the next level, i placed my sights on inbox zero. instead of combatting fantastical monsters, i took on internet trolls. better to spend this energy on real life, i’d tell myself, as i assigned my various emails to their appropriate archive folders, sent links to “read later” tabs that i’d never revisit, let my time disappear into days spent rummaging through productivity apps. welcoming videogames back into my life comes as a desperate measure in my struggle to resist turning to work (or worse, the news) when i don’t have anything else to do. it’s an attempt to retrain myself to need to be productive by default, to denounce the religion of optimizing my life. it’s an acceptance of all that this year, with this pandemic, and these lingering stresses, are trying to tell me. that no matter what i do or don’t do, i’m worth my own time.